


Severin, Severin

by Linesk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a bastard, But so is Aziraphale, Crowley is good at temptation, Demonic Powers, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Song fic, They both have dicks, Voyeurism, also blowjobs, check out that sick alliteration in the summary lads, hypnotism?, i guess, the angel-wing mug (TM) makes an appearance, there's kind of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 13:02:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20657687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linesk/pseuds/Linesk
Summary: Aziraphale thought he had born witness to his fair share of Crowley's temptations over the millennia. Those swinging, hypnotic hips, the persistent nudges to rebel against authority, the clandestine lunch dates - it all seemed part and parcel for a demon's propensity for persuasion. This assumption is shattered one day at an antiques show of all places, when the angel learns that Crowley's abilities reach far beyond a mere silver tongue, and the knowledge ignites something primal within him.After all, he'd always been one for indulging in new pleasures.





	Severin, Severin

** _“The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.” - Oscar Wilde_ **

It starts, as with most other soul-shattering realizations in Aziraphale’s existence, with something completely innocuous.

He has dragged Crowley to an antiques market. It’s one of those big annual events, all done up with eye-catching booths flanked by appraisers in plain, pressed suits, and people of all creeds have come out of the woodwork, slowly bustling past one another as they browse. The angel is paused at an unassuming table in the back corner of the venue, peering over a thick leather-bound tome, faded with age, as he runs finely manicured fingertips over the tiny, upended flecks that have begun to peel away from the cover.

Meanwhile, Crowley is hovering nearby, pacing impatient semi-circles about Aziraphale and emitting an aura of unmistakable boredom which the angel pointedly ignores (a skill he has honed with many millennia of practice).

“How much?” he asks, pulling on his negotiating voice like a well-worn coat.

The woman behind the table is young and conventionally attractive - a lithe, olive-skinned thing with cascading dark hair. She offers a strained grin with all the confidence of one who doesn’t personally realize the worth of the book in her possession, but believes it to be quite valuable, since the internet assured her as much.

“Eight hundred pounds,” she says in a clipped tone.

Aziraphale smiles like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“My dear, while this is a lovely first edition, it is hardly worth eight hundred pounds.”

She shrugs a shoulder with an infuriating air of smug nonchalance and directs her attention to her smartphone, proceeding to scroll through some social media feed.

“That’s the price,” she reiterates without lifting her gaze.

Aziraphale’s eyes go wide with incredulity. He huffs and turns away, murmuring something about “youth these days having no manners whatsoever,” when The Thing happens.

Crowley sweeps forward and leans over the table, propping his elbow on the old book as though it’s worthless, and nests his chin in his palm. There’s a thin smile on his lips, but something about the motion is _sinister._ The atmosphere shifts then, becomes heavier, and Aziraphale is frozen in place, helpless to do anything but watch.

“What’s your name, darling?” the demon drawls.

The girl slowly lays her phone face-down on the table, suddenly enraptured. She leans forward a bit herself, as though drawn by some magnetic pull to the dangerous entity before her. Muddled though his thoughts are, Aziraphale can’t help but to conjure an image of Icarus, gleefully flying toward the blazing sun.

“Shaia,” she answers on an exhale. Crowley’s grin widens into something downright _predatory._

“Shaia,” he rumbles. The moment hangs between them for long enough that it should have felt awkward, but the girl is mesmerized, and Aziraphale scarcely has the presence of mind to realize that he’s stopped breathing.

“You know, this old thing,” the demon gestures to the book pinned beneath his slender arm, “it’s not exactly a ‘hot product,’ is it? You don’t sell now and it’s bound to just sit around on your shelf.”

Shaia offers a shaky nod and says, “You’re right.”

“’Course I am.” With a devilish flourish, he produces 2 crisp bills from thin air and scoots them deliberately across the table with his index finger. When next he speaks, his voice has dipped into a lewd purr, and Aziraphale feels his blood go hot. “Here’s two hundred pounds. Go on, take the money. Buy yourself something nice. No need to worry over this silly old book.”

“Alright,” the poor girl agrees without breaking Crowley’s gaze, not even to glance at the proffered cash.

Crowley hums, nods, turns on his heel with the book hanging between loose, reedy fingers, and all at once the suffocating atmosphere lifts and reality descends like a cold rush of water. He pushes the book into Aziraphale’s hands as he passes.

“Where-to next?” he asks casually over one shoulder. The bewildered angel has to jog to catch up.

“Wha- what was _that_?” he manages to sputter.

“Just a little temptation. Nothing serious. Come on, you got your book, she’s a couple hundred pounds richer, no harm done.”

Aziraphale looks down to the tome that suddenly seems rather unimportant, given the warring emotions that churn in his gut.

He had never seen Crowley _work_, as it were. It had been unsettling to say the least, but also, _also_…

“Don’t see what all the fuss was about anyway,” the demon rambles on. “S’not like you couldn’t have miracled up the money yourself.”

“Yes, but negotiating is part of the experience,” Aziraphale counters, and his voice sounds far away, even to his own ears.

They don’t stay long after that.

+++

When they return to the bookshop, Aziraphale throws the newest addition to his collection in the vague direction of where he hopes is a cushioned chair, and backs Crowley against the wall with a ravenous kiss. They don’t stop to speak until many hours later.

+++

It takes a grand total of 2 days for Aziraphale to catalogue his thoughts on the whole temptation business at the antique show, and he’s drawn a rather explicit conclusion. Still, it warms him to know that over the 6,000-year course of their friendship, Crowley has never, not once, used that potent, demonic power against _him_.

Feeling especially bold, the angel distractedly sips hot cocoa as he mulls over the morning’s newspaper, while Crowley begins to stir from a nap on the couch. He stretches languidly, popping several joints, before slithering to his feet and joining Aziraphale at the table.

“Hello Angel,” he says sweetly, in a sleep-rough voice.

Aziraphale looks up and grins, incredibly fond. He leans forward to peck a kiss and answers, “hello, _foul fiend_.”

Crowley snorts at the joke, but his lips are still curved in a smile. Aziraphale distantly muses that Crowley seems to smile a lot, these days.

Returning his gaze to the paper, because he can’t bear to make eye-contact while broaching this _particular_ subject, the angel mutters, “I’d like to try something.”

“Oh?”

Aziraphale ruffles the paper unnecessarily and soldiers on.

“Yes, well, I was thinking about the antique show. About… that girl you, erm, tempted.”

Crowley’s smile folds into a bitter frown and he sinks into his chair, suddenly defensive.

“Come _on_ Angel, s’like I said, no harm done. I don’t see why you-“

“I’d like you to try that with me. Except in a… different capacity.”

“A ‘different capacity’?”

All hope for maintaining a cool façade crumbles as Aziraphale slams the paper down in exasperation and draws a hand to his temple. He can feel his ears go pink.

“Oh, I _know _it’s ridiculous but, well, I just thought that maybe… to _spice things up_ as it were-“

Realization dawns as Crowley connects the dots between the angel’s disjointed sputtering.

“_Ngk_.” He croaks inarticulately, and his voice has gone thin and high-pitched, and Aziraphale very much wants the Earth to open up and swallow him whole.

A tense silence stretches between them, before the demon finally manages to collect himself.

“Angel,” Crowley gently murmurs, and he reaches to lower Aziraphale’s hand and lift his chin until those fathomless ochre eyes are bearing into his own. “You _do_ know how that works, right?”

_Well, it’s not a ‘no’,_ he thinks, feeling emboldened once more.

Aziraphale understands the concern behind Crowley’s question. Of _course _he knows how the demonic power of suggestion works, and the notion when taken in a sexual context does blur a good many lines in terms of consent. Still, there’s no other being he would give himself over to in such utter totality, because he trusts Crowley, because he _loves_ him.

And also because, Aziraphale thinks, it would be a good deal of fun.

“I know,” he affirms. Then, quieter, “I could resist if I wanted to, for the record.”

The infuriating demon cants his head at this as if to say “oh really?”

“I could! I’ll prove it to you. Try it now.”

Crowley quirks an eyebrow.

“No, not _that_. Something harmless.” Aziraphale casts about, and his gaze lands on the mug of cocoa, still piping hot. “That’s it! Here, tempt me to take a sip of cocoa. Go on, then.”

The demon glances down between the angel-wing mug and back up again, considering. Aziraphale expects him to decline, when suddenly the world shifts. His focus tunnels like a fish-eye lense where Crowley is the only point of clarity, and all other aspects of reality fade to obscurity. He can’t hear anything but the demon’s steady breathing and his own hammering heartbeat. The temperature plummets, prompting the fine hairs at the nape of his neck to stand on end. When Crowley finally moves, it is with slow deliberation as he stalks around to stand behind him, and Aziraphale once again finds that he is rooted firmly in place.

Crowley leans forward, and the angel can feel hot breath on the shell of his ear.

“It’s a bit chilly,” the demon croons in a voice like gravel. Aziraphale shudders.

“Why don’t you have a sip of cocoa, hm? Warm you right up.”

He punctuates the suggestion by ghosting the back of his fingers against the angel’s cheek, before dragging them over his shoulder and following the line down his arm, leaving goosebumps as he goes. He then moves further, his chest pressed flush against the angel’s back, and cups the mug before scooting it closer to his target.

Aziraphale’s thoughts are scattered as he stares into the thick dark liquid, and, abruptly, his muscles start to ache as his mouth goes completely dry. There’s nothing he wants more in that moment than to dispel the bone-deep chill with that warm drink. He feels bereft, like a man lost in the frozen taiga, finger-numb and helpless to the frigid air. His hand twitches against the tabletop from where he can sense the warmth radiating through white ceramic. It would only take a moment to breach the gulf of just a few scant inches and curl his palm around the tantalizing mug, but before he can act, he is stricken by a pinprick of blessed clarity.

The golden blood that suffuses his veins carries its own power, after all, and what good is an angel who can’t resist the wiles of a cunning demon?

Feeling wretched but determined, he leans back with a shaky exhale.

“_No_. No, I… don’t think I will.”

With that, the spell is broken. His faculties snap back to normal and the air feels temperate once more and the surrounding world bleeds back into cognition.

“Nicely done,” Crowley chirps with a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. Aziraphale barks a near-delirious laugh.

“So you’d be willing…?” he ventures, once he reigns in his grasp on rational thought.

The thing is – he already knows the answer. He has searched his memory on many a lonely night, with only fine wine to keep him company, and has never been able to recall a single instance in which Crowley has denied him.

Sure enough, the demon bends to slot their mouths together in a slow, sipping kiss, and when he pulls away he whispers, “Anything for you, Angel.”

+++

Days pass. They travel and share delightful dinners and lock arms in the park and make love in the evenings (and sometimes in the mornings, too), but Crowley hasn’t mentioned _that _conversation, and Aziraphale has been too bashful to bring it back up. He thinks, perhaps, that the demon has forgotten, or that he has changed his mind, when Crowley shows up one afternoon and slaps a ticket down in front of him with a bit more_ panache_ than is strictly necessary.

“Show starts at 8:00,” he supplies. He then turns, those pendulum hips swaying as he goes, and adds, “Meet me at Drake’s for drinks before. It’s just up the street from the theater, can’t miss it.” Then he leaves as quickly as he came.

A bit stunned, Aziraphale plucks up the ticket and smiles when he realizes it’s for a showing of Hamlet.

“Oh, how nostalgic,” he gushes aloud.

+++

Drake’s is, as Crowley promised, easy to spot. The bold, illuminated letters cast a red hue across the street, and people have already begun to mingle outside its tinted glass double-doors. Aziraphale steps inside, sweeps the space with an appraising eye, then, upon realizing that his demon is absent, opts to take a seat at the bar.

The bartender is a stocky man, likely in his 30s, with a full beard and a kind smile.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks.

“Just a vodka tonic please, thank you.”

Aziraphale nurses his drink contentedly, scarcely paying any mind to the other patrons, their muted conversations taking a backseat to his own subdued excitement. It had been a good number of years since he’d last seen Hamlet live, after all, and he finds himself to be practically buzzing with anticipation.

The minutes drag on, and Aziraphale can’t help but frown into the dwindling liquor in his tumbler.

_Where is Crowley?_

Many people have entered and left since his arrival, more than he bothered to track, popular as the place seems, but when the door next opens, every individual in the bar goes eerily still. All eyes lock on the newcomer, and Aziraphale is slow to turn to see what the fuss is about. He feels suddenly sluggish, as though his world has been plunged into a jar of honey. All conversation ceases, and the only lingering noise is that of the radio. Even the music hedges on the periphery of his senses, as his focus is nearly entirely compromised by the allure of the demon across the room.

** _“Shiny, shiny, boots of leather…”_ **

Crowley is dressed sharp enough to cut in a sinfully fitted gunmetal grey blazer and a low-hanging, blood-red shirt made of such thin material that it’s nearly translucent. Aziraphale gapes at the exposed skin of his chest with nothing short of hunger, and he can feel the answering gaze, even from behind those damned dark glasses.

The demon lingers in the doorway and doesn’t spare a glance to anyone or anything else. Aziraphale goes hot under the intensely charged attention. Crowley wets his lips and stalks toward him in a few long strides before taking the next seat over, and the bartender presses a glass of whiskey into his open palm without even asking his order.

“On the house,” the man murmurs, and the unmistakable yearning in his tone seizes Aziraphale with a possessive fury, the force of which wraps cold, suffocating fingers around his neck.

** _“…Whiplash girl child in the dark…”_ **

The fury passes quickly, however, when Crowley makes no move to acknowledge the bartender’s presence, just raises the glass to his lips and takes a long swig, baring the column of his lovely neck in a manner that seems sinfully intentional.

Aziraphale wants a good many things in that moment, and none of them are practical or even remotely decent, but the part of his brain that dictates social graces and modesty has completely shut down. He wants to taste, to start at the dip of Crowley’s clavicle and lick a meandering path up to his Adam’s apple. He wants to scatter a constellation of bruises across the flat of the demon’s chest with his teeth. More than anything though, he wants to _please_ Crowley, a singular desire so overwhelming that he wonders if he wasn’t built just for this, every celestial stitch of his creation screaming to give himself over, to give the fallen angel anything and _everything_ he wants.

** _“…Comes in bells, your servant, don’t forsake him…”_ **

His thoughts aren’t scattered here, in Drake’s, with every eye in the establishment on Crowley, and Crowley’s own gaze fixed steadfastly at _him_. No, his thoughts aren’t scattered, they’re easy and straight-forward. A trillion puzzle pieces he’d gathered over six blessed millennia slot into place, and he can finally see clearly for the first time. He is Crowley’s and nothing else matters. The realization is more like a baptism, and with it brings equal parts relief and torment.

When Crowley sets down his glass with a muted _click _that nonetheless echoes throughout the bar, still mostly silent save for the song trickling from speakers overhead, the thin thread of Aziraphale’s composure _snaps _and he erupts into a fit of frantic energy. The Aziraphale of ten minutes ago would have looked on disapprovingly, as he’s clearly making a scene, or is, at the very least, right on the cusp of making a scene, but the Aziraphale of now doesn’t even spare a thought to the judgement of the other patrons, because they don’t matter. Only Crowley matters. Crowley, Crowley, _Crowley_.

** _“…Strike dear mistress, and cure his heart…”_ **

“Let me please you,” he blurts, his hands raised and shaking, suspended, between them. He wants nothing more than to reach out and touch yet feels a force outside himself holding him back. It’s as though he can’t act without implicit instruction.

Crowley’s ensuing smile is more like a twisted snarl, his lips slowly curling upward in menacing degrees.

“Oh, sweet Angel,” he purrs, before snaking a pointed boot up Aziraphale’s calf. The act should not destroy him as it does; the stimulation should be mild at most through the barrier of fabric, but Aziraphale’s eyes slam shut nevertheless and he moans on a sharp inhale, the blood in his veins morphing into hellfire that settles low between his thighs. He’s going to combust, he just knows it.

** _“…Downy sins of streetlight fancies…”_ **

All eyes are still on the demon, every other patron watching with baited breath, waiting, silently _pleading_ for his attention, but his focus is entirely compromised by Aziraphale, and that knowledge alights the angel's very atoms with pleasure – the strangest but most intoxicating brand of pride.

No one else speaks or enters or moves to leave. Drake’s has become their own personal Purgatory. Time slows to a dizzying crawl as Crowley removes his glasses, sets them on the counter with deliberation, and seizes one outstretched hand before sucking two ethereal fingers into his mouth. That clever tongue laves up and down and between the digits, a lewd suggestion that Aziraphale hopes is more like a promise, and he’s trembling now, so pent up with need that his body can’t contain it, and Crowley devours his reactions like a glutton, that serpentine gaze pinning him in place.

** _“…Chase the costumes she shall wear…”_ **

When he extricates the fingers from between a slide of teeth, Aziraphale somehow represses the urge to sob. The demon leans forward, those mesmerizing amber eyes flaying him open, right down to the bone.

“You’ll do anything I ask, won’t you?”

Crowley’s voice wraps around him and slithers under his skin, warm tendrils that wind through his consciousness, rendering him weightless, suffusing his core with ecstasy.

_Yes,_ his brain screams, _yes, just tell me what to do, I’m completely yours._

But beneath the delicious timbre of the demon’s words, beyond his paralyzing stare and the exposed dip of his sternum and the roguish curl of his hair (just long enough to grasp), there’s the weight of concern. The question is a test, and on some deeper level Aziraphale understands that if he fails, this will all be over.

** _“…Ermine furs adorn the imperious…”_ **

He’s on fire, he thinks he’ll die without Crowley’s touch, without his sweet approval, but when he answers in a broken yet stern voice, he says: “…not _anything_.”

A genuine smile lights the demon’s features for a fleeting moment before he leans impossibly closer, so close that Aziraphale can feel each puff of hot breath ghosting against his lips.

He then pouts theatrically and hisses, “Such a naughty angel. Won’t you at least kiss me?”

** _“…Severin, Severin awaits you there…”_ **

Aziraphale surges forward with such ferocity that their teeth nearly knock together. He slides from his barstool, distantly impressed that he can stand at all, and crawls into the demon’s lap as best he can. He’s famished,_ starving_, and bites Crowley’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Crowley’s hands fly to his hips to steady them, thumbs digging in hard enough to bruise, and he groans his approval between the slide of their tongues. Aziraphale swallows the beloved noise, uses it to fuel his fathomless desire. His hands are everywhere, tugging at Crowley’s hair, then clutching at his jaw, then dropping to skim down his neck, and further down still to explore the exposed plane of his chest. His hips are moving now of their own accord, grinding against the answering hardness beneath him, a blessed friction that serves to only whet his appetite without sating it. His clothes are too tight, his skin is too hot, and he’s become an addict; he couldn’t possibly pause his desperate ministrations now that he’s started, but he needs _more_.

** _“…I am tired, I am weary…”_ **

A noise crossed between a keen and a growl claws its way up his throat, and in a fit of desperation he sacrifices a hand to fumble with the buckle of Crowley’s belt. He’s so far gone that when Crowley tries to pull away, he chases after him, seizing him with a searing kiss that is somehow hungrier than before. The demon’s lips are moving against his own like he’s trying to speak, but Aziraphale’s focus is firmly split between exploring the cavern of Crowley’s mouth with his tongue and undoing the infuriating snakehead clasp so he can slip into those tight, leather slacks. It isn’t until strong arms forcibly push him away that rational thought begins to trickle back to him through a siphon.

He blinks sluggishly and drinks in the vision below him. Crowley looks well and truly wrecked. His hair is tousled, his pupils are blown wide, there’s a ruddy smudge of blood on his lower lip, and his cock is straining in the confines of his impossibly tight pants. Aziraphale can see the twitch of it with each sawing breath. Foolishly, he had thought he’d reached the threshold of his want, that it couldn’t grow any more intense, but his mouth waters at the sight and he _whines_, trapped as he is between the iron bars of Crowley’s arms.

** _“…I could sleep for a thousand years…”_ **

“What-“ he tries to ask.

“You’ll get us kicked out, you idiot,” Crowley rasps. “I can’t keep this up when you're…” he gestures vaguely, eyes roving the angel’s form from where he remains perched on Crowley’s thighs.

Though his lust has far from ebbed, the atmosphere feels a bit less suffocating than before. Slowly, he turns to survey the bar. Some of the patrons are still staring drunkenly at Crowley, but others have turned away, brows furrowed, blinking in clear confusion. The bartender’s eyes are glazed over, but he has begun to shuffle on his feet, evidently piecing together who he is and what he should be doing. An older gentleman pauses at the front door as if to enter, then seems to think better of it and walks away.

** _“…A thousand dreams that would awake me…”_ **

Aziraphale realizes, with a start, that they’re all slowly becoming lucid once more, and here he is, in Crowley’s lap, grinding against him with wanton abandon.

He looks balefully down at their problematic state. Even without the oppressive weight of occult power, he is still consumed with want, and the demon has never looked so deliciously disheveled.

“My dear,” he breathes at last, “I don’t think I can wait.”

Crowley’s hand flies to his mouth to stifle a moan. His eyes slam shut and his brows rise in an expression that might have been ecstasy or agony or both.

“Oh _God_,” he growls, hand dropping so he can grip Aziraphale’s arse with possessive need. He lurches forward, pressing their foreheads together with a tortured hiss. “D’you know you are the hottest bleeding thing I’ve ever seen?”

The angel flushes, feels it spread all the way down his chest. He’s so wound up that he thinks he could come from only a touch, just a light, teasing brush of Crowley’s fingers.

** _“…Different colors made of tears…”_ **

Someone from the back of the bar very loudly states “What the fuck is going on?”

The others will be fully cognizant soon, and Aziraphale winces, gaze darting this way and that like a frightened hare as he attempts to think up a solution, which proves to be very difficult with the incessant ache between his legs. He twists to look behind him and gasps in revelation.

If he were to catalogue every trying feat he’d managed over the course of his existence, he would place crawling out of Crowley’s lap in that moment as Number Three on the list, right behind Navigating the Cosmos and Averting Armageddon.

Aziraphale interrupts the demon’s ensuing protest by muttering, “The restroom, then.” Crowley’s gaze lands on the hallway in the back, and he allows himself to be pulled forward. They stumble, frantic, to the Men’s room, and the door isn’t even fully shut before Aziraphale shoves Crowley against the outdated white tile wall then promptly drops to his knees.

He will fret over the damage to his Victorian-era trousers at a later time, he decides. Priorities, and all that.

It’s quiet here, without the music and the din of confused conversation. Just the two of them, their heaving breaths echoing in the small space.

“_Fuck_,” Crowley exhales as Aziraphale finishes what he started with the belt, inelegantly jerking it apart before attacking the pants with a few aggressive flicks of his wrist, directing misplaced anger at the material that has shielded him from what he’s wanted for the better part of that afternoon.

When Crowley’s cock springs forward at last, flushed near-purple and leaking from neglect, they both moan in relief, and Aziraphale wastes no time in taking him to the back of his throat. There’s no teasing to his actions, neither of them could bear it, but the delightful weight on his tongue and the mingling tastes of salt and skin twined with Crowley’s hitching groans catapults Aziraphale to a state of euphoria. His own length throbs where it rests, painfully constrained against his thigh, and he can’t help but reach down to stroke himself through the fabric, whimpering as he twists and bobs his head.

“M’not gonna last,” Crowley warns. Aziraphale chances a glance upward and hums in appreciation at the sight. His demon’s palms are flat against the wall, fingers crooked uselessly where they scrabble for purchase against smooth tile. His head is tilted back, eyes slam-shut and brows pitched in ecstasy. His mouth hangs open, chest heaving, as though Aziraphale were unraveling him, thread by thread, like a rare, exotic tapestry. Indeed, his legs are shaking, knees bent just slightly, like the slightest push might topple him right over.

The angel would have made a comment on how beautiful he looks like this, were his mouth not otherwise occupied.

The moment is abruptly shattered when an unfortunate bar-goer pushes into the restroom and stumbles to a shocked halt at the scene before him.

Aziraphale makes a startled noise from the back of his throat but doesn’t bother to pull away.

“_Get. Out_.” Crowley seethes. The intruder freezes in terror, and his eyes go wide and unseeing for a moment as he beholds some unspeakable horror, then he screams, turns heel and bolts away.

Distantly Aziraphale hopes that the image Crowley planted in the poor gent’s mind wasn’t anything _too_ appalling, but, once again, he can’t be bothered to care given the current circumstance.

He’s broken from his musings when Crowley’s cock jumps urgently on his tongue, and the demon looks utterly desperate at this point, staring down with a pleading expression, conveying his desire with his eyes because he’s too stubbornly proud to outright beg for release.

Not that he would have to; Aziraphale wants nothing more than to give him exactly what he needs, but there is something unquantifiable in that frantic, beloved expression that shoots a jolt of heat right to his core.

He resumes his ministrations with renewed vigor, abandoning the hold on himself so he can use both hands to squeeze up and down Crowley’s thighs. He drifts beneath the thin shirt to brush his knuckles against the demon’s sensitive stomach, delighting in how the skin jumps under his feather-light touch, and simultaneously directs the tip of his tongue to firmly caress the underside of Crowley’s cock, just beneath the head.

The demon’s skull slams back with a cry as he comes, his whole body shaking, hips stuttering forward to chase the warmth of Aziraphale’s mouth to completion, and the angel can’t stop himself – he’s wrung straight to his toes with desire, every inch of skin tingling and aching from the absence of touch, and when the first hot spurt hits the back of his throat he follows Crowley’s lead. It’s intoxicating, the image of Crowley falling apart, scarcely able to stand as he gives over to the impossible pleasure. Aziraphale’s own orgasm crashes through him as he gazes upward at his fallen angel with unabashed awe, because he’s stunning and dangerous and cunning and completely irrevocably _his_.

Once their shared pleasure subsides, Aziraphale pulls back and swallows with a contented hum – the same noise he elicits when sampling only the finest of desserts. Crowley’s chest is still heaving as he shakily tucks himself away and refastens his belt, before offering a hand to the dazed angel below. Aziraphale accepts the gesture gratefully, then squeaks in surprise when he’s pulled into a tight embrace.

“_Angel_,” Crowley rumbles. “For Someone’s sake, that was, hands down, the most turned on I’ve ever been.”

Aziraphale laughs into his collar. He feels impossibly light, giddy even, and it warms him to know he has such an effect on the Architect of Original Sin himself.

Crowley’s shoulders drop a bit as he lets a hand drift low between them and purrs, “Here, let me return the favor.” Aziraphale jumps back, his face heating, eyes darting back and forth sheepishly.

“Ah, well, that isn’t strictly necessary, erm, at the moment.”

The demon looks wounded, until he spots the fresh stain on the front of the angel’s trousers and his countenance lights up in a positively wicked grin.

“Oh, just, shut up,” Aziraphale snaps, halting the smug comment before Crowley even has a chance to form the words. “I couldn’t _help_ it! You were making the most wonderful noises.”

He chances a glance downward to assess the damage himself and his face crumples in disappointment. Sure enough, aside from the obvious, the dark grime from the restroom floor clings to the knees of that treasured khaki fabric.

“They’re ruined,” Aziraphale bemoans. “After all these years, my favorite pair of trousers…”

Crowley rolls his eyes and cuts him off with a swift snap of his fingers. The detritus and, _ahem_, the other mess vanishes at once.

Aziraphale beams.

“Thank you, dearest. Now, about the show…”

The demon crumples in a dramatic display of flailing, noodly arms.

“Really? You still want to sit through Hamlet after _that_?”

“Well, it was such a kind gift-”

“Angel, I just used the play as an excuse to catch you off-guard. Dunno about you, but I feel like I’ve been discorporated. Enduring that boring rubbish will put the final nail in the coffin.”

Aziraphale broadens his smile, then. It’s the same deceptively sweet expression he utilizes against unruly customers.

“We’ll see how 'boring' it is when I get you off again during the performance.”

The poor demon looks like he might implode. A series of stilted, inarticulate noises escape from between his teeth as he struggles for words. His face is nearly the same ruddy shade of his hair when he finally growls, “You absolute bastard. Here I am, thinking I’m the one doing the tempting, but _you_…”

He trails off as Aziraphale silences him with a fond kiss. A bit of the bewildered tension eases from his sharp shoulders.

“You’re lovely. I’ll never grow tired of you,” the angel says on an oath before drawing away.

Crowley goes rigid, jaw unhinged, as if he’s just been plunged in ice water, and Aziraphale knows he’s suffering from emotional whiplash. It’s endearing, he thinks, watching the demon sputter, feeling his heart race from beneath the cover of his palm.

Looking defeated, Crowley lets out a gargantuan exhalation before lifting the angel’s hand to press a kiss into his knuckles. His expressive eyes speak louder than any words ever could.

“Love you,” he murmurs simply. “-But let’s get on. I’m not much for hanging around in public loos, that’s more Hastur’s venue.”

Aziraphale laughs and follows him out. Crowley plucks up his glasses from where they’d lain on the bartop, miraculously untouched during their interlude, and both angel and demon pointedly ignore the confused stares of the patrons as they exit to the twilight street and stride toward the theater, arm-in-arm.

_Temptation accomplished._

**Author's Note:**

> The song in the bar is "Venus in Furs" by The Velvet Underground. The lyrics are kind of racy for bebop, eh? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this. Ya filthy animals.


End file.
